


The Sun Always Rises

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than a year after escaping Danarius, Fenris—frozen, starving, and hunted—winds up in a Chantry outside Starkhaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Always Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Rating for canon-typical violence.
> 
> The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal,  
> But know that the sun always rises.  
> - _the Chant of Light_

The door groans but does not creak, at least, and Fenris slips into the Chantry beneath the notice of most of the servicegoers.

The nave is not particularly warm but for Fenris it is a blessed relief. They came upon him in the middle of the night, and he was forced to flee through the snow with nothing, not his weapon, not the heavy cloak they snatched from his back. He made his escape up the river so as not to leave a trail, as he would in the untouched drifts that pillowed softly between the trees. The river flowed high and fast around his knees, and his stolen boots, too big for him, filled with freezing water the second he stepped in.

The going was hard, but he is small and quick. He managed to lose them.

And then he ran and did not stop. Not when the sun rose, not when it peaked in the sky, not when it began to sink down, descending gently only to be caught by the far horizon. Its last exhalation of light splashes now over the low, furrowed clouds in the west.

Fenris does not know if his hunters paused to rest. So he could not stop. But he is _tired_ —needs just a small reprieve, just a few moments in which to warm his frozen muscles, perhaps to search out some food. It has been days since he last ate. He thinks briefly of staying after the service to beg alms from the Chantry sister whose low, rich voice fills the stone hall. He decides against it. His appearance already draws too much attention—it would not do to invite more.

The hall is plain and not very large; Starkhaven is an hour’s ride to the south, and that will be where the Chantry funnels its resources. Perhaps half the seats are filled for the evening service. He sits carefully at the end of the long bench at the back, beside the roaring fireplace built into the wall. The heat seeps through his armor, through his thin clothes and into his damp skin, and it is so welcome he feels his eyes begin to prick with tears. He scrubs at them hastily, lest anyone take notice.

The sister’s voice rises, ringing out from the chancel. Fenris is drawn to her words despite his exhaustion. He is not familiar with these verses; the clergy in Tevinter drew on different sections of the Chant. _All men are the work of our Maker’s hands,_ the woman calls, _from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker!_

Fenris folds his hands between his knees and bows his head, shivering as he listens. He must go, he must move on, his pursuers could be only just behind him; he thinks all this and yet stays, Andraste’s likeness gazing down at him from the apse, extending to him her hand of stone.

Then those gathered in the hall begin to speak. It’s the Chant, Fenris can tell that much, but he does not know these verses, and he hunches his shoulders, embarrassed. When the verse ends, there’s a moment of pure silence, but for the crackle of flames, the sound of his own quiet breathing in his ears.

The sister begins to sing.

The words are again unfamiliar, but the tune is not. The song is picked up by the servicegoers, and Fenris hums along though his throat is dry. It’s the least he can do, a small offering as repayment for the shelter granted him.

Then the song ends, and people begin to rise.

Fenris stays where he is, keeping very still so as not to draw any eyes. He should go. He must go. But he’s so tired, and the night will be freezing, and he still hasn’t had anything to eat. As the hall empties he sits there, crushing his hands between his knees, trying to force himself to leave this bench and walk out into the snow once more.

“This spot is lovely in the winters, isn’t it? Warms you right up.”

Fenris starts.

The Chantry sister stands beside him. An older woman, a few gray streaks lining her brown hair. “Especially when you haven’t worn a coat to the service,” she notes.

Fenris shrinks back a little. “I…yes. Foolish of me.”

“Well, lucky for you, I think we’ve still some clothes left in the back from our last donation. Would you like to come choose something?” She smiles down at him.

Fenris doesn’t reply for a moment. He could certainly use warm clothes, but he must not linger, he must run—

The sister gestures. “We’ve some stew left too. You look like you could use a hot meal.”

That’s what does it, the thought of his first meal in days. Fenris nods jerkily. “I—yes. Thank you.”

She leads him up the aisle. “I’m Sister Catherine. What should I call you?”

He thinks of giving a false name, but he figures that he is remarkable enough, with his lyrium brands and his striking white hair, that such a contrivance would be pointless. “My name is Fenris,” he mutters.

“Fenris? That’s not a Marches name.”

His steps stutter, and he falls back a little. The sister turns. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Really, you don’t have to tell me any more.”

He hesitates. She tries again. “Please. You look half-starved, at least let me get you some food.”

He can’t resist the lure of hot food, so he nods, folding his arms around himself, and follows her to the back of the hall.

There’s a little room in the back, cluttered with piles of folded linens and robes, bookshelves with worn tomes overflowing onto the floor, and a table stacked with metal bowls. There’s a black iron pot on the table, and Catherine puts it on the fire, then goes to the cabinet. “Here, this should warm you up a bit.”

She turns with a bottle of whiskey in hand and a pair of glasses. Fenris steps back, grasping absently at the doorway. “I—would rather not drink any spirits, if that’s all right.”

Catherine nods. “Tea then.”

While the water heats, she pulls out a chair for him, setting it in front of the fire. He lowers himself into it. She gestures with her glass of whiskey. “Your boots are soaked through, why don’t you take them off and warm your feet a bit?”

Fenris reaches down and picks at the laces. He’s only just begun to be able to feel his feet again—sharp pinpricks stabbing into him, heralding a deep, burning pain to come. The leather sticks to his skin, but he manages to yank the boots off.

“Oh, Maker,” Catherine whispers, and sets down her glass.

His feet are waxy and white, and his toes are covered in blisters, some of which have torn. The lyrium brands are glowing. _Venhedis._ He had not wanted her to see that. And now he’s frightened her—

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose any of your toes!” She kneels, grasping one of his feet in her hands and massaging it.

He jerks away, startled. “You don’t have to do that, I’m only—“

_I’m only a slave._

She recaptures his foot and kneads it gently. “I’m doing it because I want to, not because I have to. Look at this—how long were you out in the cold?”

He grasps the edges of his chair. “Some days,” he mutters.

She pauses for a moment and peers up at him, suspicious. “When did you last have something to eat?”

Fenris shakes his head. “I am fine.”

She arches an eyebrow and waits. At last he capitulates. “I’m—not sure.”

“Maker save us all.” Catherine glances at the pot over the fire. “Well, we’re going to fix that.”

Fenris winces as the blood starts returning to his feet, holding back a hiss of pain. It hurts, very much so, and he tries to curl his toes but they don’t move. Catherine’s warm hands burn against his skin. He can sense that there’s more she wants to ask, but also that she fears scaring him away. Her lips are pressed tight together. Fenris thinks of saying something—she’s helping him, she deserves—

“How did you like the service?”

Fenris blinks. “Oh. Er—it was very nice.”

She half-smiles. “You can say you weren’t listening, I won’t take offense. I usually spot a few people taking naps in the middle of things—“

“No, I was listening. Although I…was not familiar with the verses you chose.”

Catherine snorts. “Really? At least half the services I’ve been to have included Transfigurations One somewhere or other.”

Fenris bows his head. “Ah. I—I see.”

She nods. “But you’re not from around here.”

“No.”

“Do you have a favorite verse?”

He shakes his head.

She blinks. “Truly? I thought everyone had a favorite.”

“I…have never much understood the Chant.” He grasps his knees, embarrassed. “I am sorry. The words are beautiful, but…”

Catherine warms her hands in the fire a moment before pressing them to his other foot. “You have not felt the Maker in them.”

Fenris remembers then one verse he knows, one that on first hearing seemed to be whispered close in his ear although the chanter sang to a hundred people. Thinking later on it, he would pretend the chanter saw him lingering at the back, in Danarius’s shadow, and spoke only to him. “ ‘I cannot see the path,’ ” he murmurs. “ ‘Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped.’ ”

“ ‘I am not alone,’ ” Catherine continues firmly. “ ‘Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the light is here.’ ”

Fenris doesn’t know what to say.

“I think that stew might be ready by now. Let’s see.” She leans over and checks the pot.

A moment later Fenris is spooning stew into his mouth as quick as he can. There’s a distant self-admonishment at the back of his mind, a voice telling him he’s being most uncivilized. But his hunger is too great, and he cannot slow himself. As soon as he finishes one serving, Catherine refills the bowl, and he dips his spoon in again. Only after the third bowlful does he pause for breath.

Catherine peers into the pot. “I’m afraid that’s all there is.”

Fenris lets out a long, slow breath. He’s had a meal and a short rest. It’s time to move on. He rises. “Thank you for all you’ve given me, truly. But I am afraid I must go.”

“Why?”

He looks up.

Catherine’s hands are clasped in front of her, and she appears to be struggling with herself. “It’s just—your feet were nearly frozen off, and you don’t remember the last time you ate.” She steps forward. “You need help.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I will be fine.”

“You’re in trouble. Bad trouble.”

“You don’t need to help me anymore.”

“I _do._ ‘All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand, beloved and precious to Him.’ How am I to let you go, knowing you will come to harm?”

 _Beloved and precious._ Fenris shakes his head again, more vehemently this time. “No. You will be in danger. I am—hunted.”

“Hunted? Who’s hunting you?”

“My master,” he mumbles.

There’s a pause, and then Catherine says, “Oh.”

“As you see, you are much better off letting me leave.” He begins jamming his feet into his soggy boots. “Thank you again for your—”

“You won’t be in danger,” she interrupts. “Not if I hide you. I don’t care who these people are, they won’t go after a Chantry sister—not ten miles north of Starkhaven. They’d be thrown in chains in an instant. Even if they escaped, they’d be chased down.”

Fenris hesitates.

“Trust me,” Catherine implores him. “You’ll be safe. You don’t even have to stay very long. But if you go out there again like this, you’ll freeze. Or starve.”

He doesn’t want to run. He doesn’t want to run anymore. He knows he must, yet—perhaps he will be safe, in a place such as this, if only until Danarius finds a new way to get to him. So he can stay. Just for a little while. “I…if you are sure.”

“Oh, wonderful.” She beams. “Here, let me look at those donated clothes and find you something warm to wear.”

His ears fit snugly beneath the wool cap, which also covers his rather conspicuous hair. The cloak is warm and well-made, whereas Catherine’s is somewhat thin; it’s only after they’ve gotten on their way Fenris realizes she gave him her own cloak, pretending it was a donation, and took one of the donated cloaks for herself.

Catherine takes him down narrow streets, the snow stomped down by the traffic of the day. The buildings are squat and close, and from each one juts a chimney topped by a plume of smoke. Her home is close to the edge of town, and she ushers him in and closes the door, going to the back of the room start a fire.

The sitting room is small and spare, with little furniture. The walls are lined with a dozen paintings in what look like homemade frames. Peering through the door to his right, Fenris finds a cluttered kitchen with a hallway beyond.

“There we are.” Catherine steps back and closes the grate, flames flickering beneath the stack of logs. “Now why don’t you sit down? And take off your boots, let them dry a bit.”

So Fenris places his boots in front of the fire and sits at the table, aware suddenly that he is a guest in someone else’s home. He does’t think he’s ever been a guest before, although he’s certainly waited on them often enough. Catherine disappears into the kitchen. Fenris waits. He feels as if he should be doing—something. Helping, or maybe running.

At the end of the table there’s a small statuette of Andraste. Just as in the chapel, she reaches out her hand to him. Fenris reaches back, and places his fingertip on her tiny palm. She appears to have been painted by hand, and her robes are detailed, dotted in silver, her smile serene.

“My husband painted that for me.”

Fenris, caught trespassing, takes his hand away. “Your husband?”

“Yes. He passed away six years ago, thrown from a horse. Just after my son and his wife had gone to settle in Tantervale.” She sets down a plate in front of him.

“I am sorry.”

She shrugs a little. “He’s not the first who’s died too early, and he won’t be the last. These things happen sometimes.” Then she sits down opposite with her own plate. “It may be a bit cold, but I was too impatient to warm it.”

Some sort of fruit pie. Fenris takes a cautious bite. It tastes incredible. He takes another bite, and another, then places his fork down and forces himself to stop and savor it. Catherine starts in on her own slice. “My famous apple pie. The secret’s in the nutmeg.”

Apples. Not common in Tevinter. Fenris chews slowly, the tang of the fruit and the spice of the cinnamon and nutmeg mixing to perfection on his tongue. He goes to pick up his fork but desists. Such pleasures are rare, and he must not rush this. Instead he looks over again at the little statue of Andraste, still standing at the end of the table. “She’s quite beautiful. Your husband was very skilled.”

“He was. All these are his.” She gestures at the walls, at the paintings lined up edge-to-edge. “But that figurine was always my favorite. Something about her expression, I think.”

That serene smile. Fenris has not seen many depictions like this. In many her head is bowed as she weeps for the Maker’s children. In many others she is burning.

“Why do you think he did that?” Fenris asks quietly.

“Hm?” Catherine wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her Chantry robe.

“Why do you think the Maker allowed your husband to be thrown from a horse? Why did he let his bride go to burn at the stake? Why would he do these things?”

She sets down her fork. “Why would he allow you and so many others to be enslaved by maleficars?”

That had been what Fenris was wondering, although he had not meant to make it so obvious. He nods, staring down at the table.

Catherine sighs. “The Maker turned away from us. Some say that’s why all these terrible things happen, because he does not see us and does not care to.”

 _Perhaps there is only abyss,_ Fenris thinks again.

“That never seemed quite right to me,” she continues, thoughtful. “I think he knows this world of his contains both great and terrible things—sometimes both in the very same place. Like when a brave woman plunges headfirst into battle with an archdemon, knowing she must die if she is to save the rest of Thedas. I think he _is_ watching over us. I think he wants to see what we do when he is not there to speak in his own voice. He wants to see us be kind, knowing that it may change nothing at all. That the most devout heart may still be allowed to break when a man is thrown from a horse and killed one summer afternoon. But still, we _must_ be kind.”

Fenris turns it over in his head. He doesn’t think he wants to be kind. Not to Danarius.

“I’m sorry, I promise I’m not trying to convert you.” She chuckles. “The Maker will show himself to you in whatever form he sees fit.”

Fenris picks up his fork and takes another bite. For a second he believes the Maker might be in the form of this pie; the experience of eating it approaches transcendence.

Catherine reaches out and strokes the miniature Andraste’s face fondly with her thumb. “When you’re finished with that, we should sit you in front of the fire and warm up those frozen toes of yours properly. I’m still afraid you’ll lose them.”

It takes some time, but after letting them soak in heated water, the color returns to his feet, his skin once again flushing a warm brown. The lyrium stops glowing too. There is still plenty about it he does not know, but he thinks it may have been protecting his flesh from the cold. “You have not asked about them.”

“About what?” Catherine asks, sitting beside him in the chair she’s pulled up.

“My markings.”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “Some Tevinter custom I’m not familiar with, I assume.”

Not quite. But Fenris doesn’t want to—

“You don’t have to talk about it, it’s all right. Would you like to have a wash before you go to bed? I can heat up some more water.”

The feeling of the warm cloth wiping the sweat from his skin is another pleasure he has not experienced in a long time—far more pleasant than the brief, frigid scrubs he would submit himself to as he fled through the forest. But that was before the snow, when he could depend on the ability to dry himself off so as not to freeze. When he emerges from the washroom he finds a stack of clean clothes waiting on the floor, and Catherine calls, “Those belonged to my husband! They’ll probably be enormous on you but they’re warm!”

Fenris slips them on. They are indeed far too large, but he tucks the shirt into his waistband and tightens the belt and the clothes aren’t falling off him so much anymore. Catherine is reading at the table, where his armor is stacked, and she smiles when he enters. “Well, don’t you just look like a boy who’s got into his father’s closet.”

He pulls the coat around his shoulders. The sleeves fall fully over his hands. “Thank you for these.”

“Oh, I’m just happy to put them to use.”

He nods and goes to the fire, lying on the floor in front of it.

Catherine’s voice, bewildered. “Are you—you’re not planning on sleeping like that?”

He sits up, alarmed. “I—I’m sorry, I was blocking the heat—“

“No, no, Maker, you’re supposed to sleep in the bed!”

Fenris stares. “But—I cannot take the bed from you—“

“Of course you can! It’s my bed, I can perfectly well give it away if I like! Please, you’ve been sleeping in the snow, I would feel so much better if you were in a proper bed tonight. Only leave the door open so the heat gets in.” She gestures. “It’s just across from the kitchen.”

Fenris doesn’t know what to do. She should not be making such sacrifices for him, and yet he is her guest, he must show her courtesy. And it is not courteous to argue. Catherine is back to her book; it seems she feels the matter is settled. So Fenris trudges into the bedroom.

It is small, like the rest of the house, and the heat from the fire permeates it nicely. Fenris climbs under the covers, faintly disbelieving. He has had a bed to himself a handful of times before, when he could scrounge or steal the coin for a poor room at an inn. But not like this, not one given in charity.

The covers are heavy and soft, draped over his thin body. He rests his head on the pillow and turns on his side, curling up. His armor, he realizes, still sits on the table. He should have put it on after he washed.

But he cannot move from here. The covers are a warm embrace, the mattress lumpy but a hundred times more comfortable than the frozen ground. And she gave this to him. Catherine gave this to him.

He is afraid they will come in the night. He is afraid they will rip the covers away and beat him and bind him with rope and chains. But he doesn’t want it to be true. He doesn’t want to be hunted. He doesn’t want to be at Danarius’s mercy, even here, even hundreds of miles away.

What if it weren’t true? What if it were only this? What if he were not a slave but a simple traveler, finding shelter at last after a long, difficult journey?

His eyes prick with tears and he pulls the quilt up under his chin. He should not be doing it, he knows, but he cannot resist any longer, and he lets the dream of safety envelop him, a final comfort as he drifts off to sleep.

——

“Fenris?”

A knocking sound. Fenris slits his eyes open. Where is he? What’s happened to him? He struggles to sit up—

“Oh, no, you don’t have to get out of bed yet. I just wanted to tell you I’m going to the Chantry to tell them I’m terribly ill and won’t be in for a couple of days.” Catherine leans against the threshold. “I didn’t want you waking to an empty house, that’s all.”

He blinks at her, confused. The previous night’s events begin to trickle back.

“I’ll be back within the hour.” She disappears out the doorway.

Fenris lies down again. Sleep. He just wants to sleep.

——

He wakes again to sizzling and the smell of garlic.

The air is cool on his face but under the covers he is warm. It’s strange, to feel soft, dry clothing on his skin, heavy blankets so close against him. He is used to the wet snow, used to his armor.

When he shuffles out of the bedroom Catherine waves a wooden spoon at him. She’s out of her Chantry robes, dressed in a sturdy shirt and trousers. “Should be done soon!”

Fenris waits in the sitting room, where he notices a bedroll leaned up beside the fireplace. She must have slept on that. Fenris discovers that he has none of the joint aches he’s grown accustomed to from sleeping on the ground; his muscles are sore, yes, from his flight yesterday. But no more than that.

“Here we are!” Catherine sets the bowl in front of him. Steam rises from it in thick white curls. “A little more substantial than yesterday’s fare.”

Another stew, but there’s beef this time mixed in with the vegetables. Fenris discovers he is once again starving. Catherine is agile with the ladle, keeping up with his substantial appetite. Only two servings this time, he wiping his mouth after his second as Catherine continues working at her first.

Fenris sets the bowl aside and stares hard at the table. “I do not have any way to repay you.”

Catherine waves her spoon. “You can repay me by taking care of yourself.”

Taking care of himself. He has not thought of that. Only of survival. “I will—“

A hammering at the door.

Fenris freezes, terror flushing through him, his chest seizing, his guts turning over. That’s no friendly knock. “Take your armor and hide,” Catherine whispers. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Fenris gathers up his breastplate, gauntlets, and spaulders and darts into the bedroom, easing the door shut. How could he have done this? This is his repayment—bringing slave-hunters to her home, men who will stop at nothing to find him. He presses his ear to the door and listens.

“Yes? How may I help you?”

A gruff voice. “Sister Catherine?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We’re looking for an elf. He was spotted at your service last night.”

“An elf? What did he do?”

“He’s a dangerous murderer, Sister. Very clever. Tricks people into helping him with tales of woe.”

Fenris clutches his armor closer to him. That isn’t true. He didn’t lie to her—

“Oh, goodness. Here in Northsend? How frightening.”

A grunt. “You were also spotted walking through town after the service with a strange man at your side. Small of stature.”

 _Venhedis._ They were seen together. Fenris presses a hand to his mouth.

“Yes, Roderick Payne,” Catherine replies. “He lives on a farm a couple of miles outside town. He just lost his wife and has been going through a difficult time, so I walked him home.”

“Hm. Are you married? Any children?”

“My husband passed away some years ago. I have a son, but he lives in Tantervale now.”

“Just you in the house, then.”

“That’s correct.”

“Would you like to explain to me why you’ve got two bowls set out on the table, then?”

A beat of silence. Then a stuttered “I-I—“

Followed by the door slamming into the wall and a cry of shocked pain. A cry from Catherine. One of them must have struck her.

Fenris drops his armor and explodes out of the bedroom.

Three of them. Before they can react, he snatches his spoon out of the bowl and jams it into the first man’s eye as deep as it will go. A high, terrified scream, and he falls, clutching his face. Good. The next two unship their clubs. Blunt weapons, so he may be knocked out and brought back alive. Fenris circles around the stuffed armchair for some cover, but they split around it and come at him. So he clambers up over the chair and scrambles back toward the table, grasping—finding the second spoon, slipping behind the table and whipping one of the wooden chairs out. It catches the first man and makes him stumble. Fenris ducks a club-swing from the second, coming up inside his guard and stabbing the spoon into his neck.

They’re in traveling gear, not armor, and his neck is uncovered. The spoon goes in deep and Fenris rips it out, a generous gush of hot blood spraying over his own face and chest. The next will be coming. Fenris turns—

—and something grabs his ankle, yanking. The man with the spoon in his eye, reaching out and grabbing from under the table. Fenris flails, wavering. Then there’s a heavy impact at the back of his skull and he staggers, dazed, collapses to a knee. Blearily he raises an arm, feels the club thump down on it, the deep, screaming jolt of pain. Still he keeps the arm up—block, he has to block—but the next strike is too hard, hurts too much, and his arm falls to his lap. He tries vainly to crawl away. This is it.

The sound of shattering, a grunt, the thud of a body hitting the floor. Fenris flips over, finds the one with the spoon sticking out of his eye, grabs his skull and twists hard. A decisive _snap_ and he goes limp. Who is next? Are there any more? Fenris, kneeling, scans.

The first, with the broken neck. The second, gurgling on the ground as blood pumps from his slashed throat. The third, unconscious, his club still resting in his fingers. Shards of pottery surround his head, a few stuck in his hair.

Above him Catherine stands holding the shattered base of the figurine of Andraste. Fenris spots among the strewn pieces her small, reaching hand. Catherine must have smashed the figurine over that man’s head, just before he was about to knock Fenris out. And now it’s broken. Destroyed. That was— “That was your favorite,” Fenris whispers. “Your husband painted it for you.”

“Er—oh. No, it’s all right. I don’t mind.” She sets the base down on the table, then rubs at her cheek gingerly. There’s a red spot there where she was struck, already starting to swell.

“I killed them in your home.” Fenris shakes his head, his nose burning, his breath catching in his throat. “You took me in and gave me shelter, and they came and hurt you and I killed them in your home. There’s blood—“

 _“Fenris.”_ She kneels in front of him. “You were only defending yourself. And me.”

“I can’t stay.” He presses a hand to his eyes. “I cannot stay here.”

“I understand.” Catherine rises. “Let me pack you some food and find something warm for you to wear.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I did this.”

“Don’t be. Here, on your feet.” She holds out her hand.

He hesitates, then takes it and rises.

“Good.” She’s breathless but businesslike. Fenris suspects the shock will set in later. “Now d’you think you could truss that one up while I’m getting you ready to leave? I’ll alert the constable once you’ve gone.”

Fenris nods and searches their packs for some rope.

——

“Fenris?”

He jumps. “Hm?”

“You’ve been staring at that thing for ages.” Hawke lifts an eyebrow. “Did you have an epiphany or something?”

“No, I only…” Fenris examines the statuette. It’s the same mold, or a very similar one. Her features are hard to make out in the plain clay, but her head is high and her tiny hand outstretched. He points it out to the shopkeeper. “How much for this?”

The woman appraises him. “Six silvers.”

Fenris feels suddenly Hawke’s looming presence coming up at his shoulder. The woman cringes. “Er—let’s call it three, how does that sound?”

Fenris digs in his purse for the coin. “Hawke.”

“Yes?”

“I may be absent for a few days. I am going to make a trip to Starkhaven.”

“Starkhaven? Sounds like fun. Would you like some company?”

——

Fenris recounts the directions in his head as he walks. _The last street before the edge of town,_ they’d told him at the Chantry. _Then go north. There’s a house with a pair of apple trees out front, it’s two beyond that._

“I think it’s quite good. Very detailed.” Hawke rotates the figurine. “My favorite part is her expression. I never thought I’d be seduced by a statue of Andraste, but let me tell you, she’s getting there—“

Fenris snatches the figurine out of Hawke’s hands. “I am unpracticed in painting,” he growls. He _did_ try to fix his mistake—Andraste’s eyebrow arched lasciviously, her full lips curled in a knowing smile—but his attempts only seemed to make things worse. So he gave up. He hopes it will not offend.

The apple trees are in full bloom, the grass below scattered with white-pink petals. How different this place looks in the summer, with a warm breeze at their backs and the sky wide and blue above them. “Here we are,” Hawke says, nodding.

Fenris does not recognize the house. He supposes he had not expected to—and anyway, it isn’t very remarkable, squat and small with a short brick chimney jutting out of the roof. He hesitates at the gate.

But Hawke is already striding up the walkway, curse him, so Fenris follows, the statuette clutched in both hands.

Hawke knocks on the door. Fenris waits with him, seized all at once by terrible misgivings. What if she doesn’t remember him? Or what if she’s frightened of him, after he killed those hunters in her sitting room?

A man opens the door. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon!” Hawke says jovially. “We were looking for a Sister Catherine, does she still live here?”

The man turns. “Mum, some people to see you.”

A rustling from further in. “Who is it?”

Then she appears behind him.

Her face is different than Fenris remembers—a little sharper, with a stronger chin and narrower eyes. The erosions of time upon his memory, he supposes. The other changes can be ascribed to the six interceding years, the wrinkles that line her mouth, the gray that’s taken over her hair. When she sees him her jaw drops. “No. Fenris? Is that you?”

He starts. “Oh. You—remember me.”

“Of course I do! Maker, come in!”

So he slips inside, Hawke just behind him, and holds out the figurine. “Here. I know that it cannot replace what you lost, but I hope—“

“She is _lovely!_ Look at the pattern on her robes. Did you paint her yourself?”

“I did.”

“How wonderful of you.” Catherine grins suddenly. “Ooh, she’s a saucy one, isn’t she?”

Fenris winces. “I apologize. I…had not meant to cause such an effect.”

“Don’t apologize. Forty years as a Chantry sister and only a half-dozen times have I seen Andraste look like she’s actually enjoying herself. Gregory, would you mind putting the kettle on?”

“Sure thing, mum.” The man goes off to the kitchen.

Catherine sets the statue at the head of the table and gazes at it a moment more. “I never doubted you’d make it, you know. ‘Though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering from ailments both great and small…’ “

“ ‘His heart was strong, and he moved on,’ “ Hawke finishes, and then offers his hand to shake. “My name’s Rowan Hawke, by the way. Fenris tells me you saved him.”

She shakes and shrugs modestly. “I only did as the Maker would ask of me.”

“Catherine?” Fenris says. “Thank you. If there is anything I can do to repay you…”

“Well,” she sighs. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“With some encouragement, yes,” Hawke puts in. “I’ve been seeing to it.”

“Good! That’s all I want to hear.”

Fenris reflects then that he is very lucky, especially for one whose life had such an inauspicious start. “I…thank you,” he mutters again, unsure what else to say. Hawke’s hand slips into his and squeezes him gently.  

“Sit, sit!” Catherine flaps her hands.

Fenris wonders, as he lowers himself into a chair, if she would ascribe his luck to the Maker’s will. He prefers to ascribe it to more earthly causes. Hawke and Catherine are discussing, he discovers, what he’s been up to since arriving in Kirkwall. Catherine’s face is glowing with joy. Fenris lets them talk.

At the end of the table Andraste smiles slyly at him. He rests a finger in her outstretched hand and smiles back.


End file.
